I Guess it’s Time to Talk About Nanowrimo

It’s been long enough. First off, I completely get why people do it. It makes sense that taking a month to discipline yourself into carving out chunks of time to write, a time when so many people around the world are also writing, encouraging you on, all of that goodness would help a person get 50,000 words onto a page.

I’m very competitive. I do not like to lose. As soon as I start to feel like I’m losing, I hate whatever game I’m playing and just want to quit.

I’m also not a quitter. It makes for a really uncomfortable experience when part of me wants to pout and storm off and the other part is like nah we gotta at least finish this bitch.¬† Add to that the desire to be more forgiving and loving towards myself and you get a hot freaking mess come mid-November.

I think I got around 20,000 words written, which is no small thing. But unlike last summer, when I was churning out several thousand words a day, my heart wasn’t in it. My head was barely in it–more focused on word count and “sprints” and the desire to edit my current story rather than start working on the sequel. Plus my husband was around, which makes it so hard.

That’s the best problem to have as a writer/human being, though. I have someone in my life whose very presence makes it hard to focus on other things. Even if he’s in the other room working on schoolwork or watching TV, a part of me just wants to be beside him, and feels like any moment I’m not is ultimately squandered. That also makes it difficult to pursue my writing sometimes, which is frustrating and makes me angry with him for making me love him so damn much. There was a lot of moodiness in November that only added to the misery of failing at Nanowrimo wordcounts and falling behind in working on my current novel.

So, for me, it was a very good lesson learned: National Novel Writing Month is not a thing I’ll participate in again, at least not in the near future.

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Chocolate-Covered Strawberries: a Rant

Of all the “sexy” foods and dishes out there, I understand chocolate-covered strawberries the least. I do not understand how one can look remotely sexy eating a chocolate-covered strawberry — unless she does it in one bite, I suppose, but have you seen the size of some of these strawberries? I’m pretty sure choking to death on dessert fruit is the least sexy way to end a date night.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the flavor combination. Burst of fruity-sweetness, wrapped in a hint of bitter warmth. I get that aspect.

It’s just every time I bite into a chocolate-covered strawberry (because, as we’ve established, I’m not “sexy” enough to go with the one-bite game plan), the chocolate shatters and juice spills over my fingers and down my chin. The bits of chocolate that were so hard seconds ago are now quick-melting into my favorite shirt and — somehow — caking under my fingernails. To reduce casualties, I messily shove the remainder of the dripping, melting mess into my mouth, desperately holding the —¬†extremely¬†fragile — stem so I don’t accidentally ingest the green part which I’m sure is fine but this-is-a-sexy-dessert-not-a-salad-damn-it.

And then, of course, I’m stuck holding the half-chewed remains in my sticky fingers. In that moment, I don’t know which is the more important find: a trashcan or a paper towel. Or maybe my husband, who has since removed himself from the situation claiming he doesn’t even really like strawberries anyway.

I’ll usually end up peeling off the chocolate and dumping the now-mushy strawberries (priorities). It would be better all around if we just kept our fruit and chocolate separate.